The Affair of the Curious Catch
by beesandbrews
Summary: Fishing is a childish pursuit that Sherlock had abandoned long ago. Now, standing on a riverbank, he realises that there may be more to the sport than chill mornings and dubious bragging rights. A post-return story.


It isn't the first time he's stood on a riverbank as the mists gave way to the bright rays of a rising sun. It isn't the first time he's been gently chided as he casts his lure into a chill river and been told to haul his line back so that he can try again. It isn't even the first time an instructor has wrapped their arms around his body, guiding his motions in a pantomime of the correct technique, but for the sake of his friendship with John, Sherlock pretends that it is.

It had been his father who had first sat him down and shown him the complexities of tying a fly, patiently explaining the theory and then demonstrating the technique. It had been his father who had first corrected his form on a riverbank, not unlike this one, so he could cast his line precisely, and send his carefully constructed nymph dancing on the surface of the water. They are skills he has retained because they are tied to memories he has carefully stored away in his Mind Palace, but for the sake of his deception, he pretends, like most things that have no relation to his study of deductive science, that he is new to their intricacies.

"Show me again." He asks not because he needs the demonstration, but because he enjoys watching John go through the motions. John sighs, but it is obvious that he secretly enjoys the role reversal. He makes eye contact to verify that Sherlock is ready, and then lets his line fly. John's technique is far from flawless, and Sherlock is tempted to offer a few pointers of his own, but he holds his tongue, maintaining the illusion that he is a neophyte angler.

"Okay, now you try," John says very softly. It is a good thing they have learnt to communicate in near-whispers. Normally, they are trying not to alert criminals to their presence, now they are employing the skill so that they don't scare the fish.

The sun creeps a bit higher into the sky, sending golden shimmers dancing over the water's rippling surface. The insects rise, and with it the interest of the trout and graylings they are meant to be stalking. John can't keep the excitement out of his expression. He is practically bursting with it as twenty feet downriver a splash breaks the quiet and a flash of brown tantalisingly beckons. A grin breaks out over his face as he points. Sherlock smiles back at him, caught up in the infectiousness of his friend's enthusiasm.

He's grateful that John has let him back into his life. Given the depths of his betrayal, it was by no means a certainty that he would be forgiven, let alone be given an opportunity to make amends. And in many ways, they are as they were before: two comrades-in-arms united in their efforts to thwart London's criminal fraternity. But John is cautious around him. At times, he gives the impression that he is conflicted, and is perhaps trying to convince himself that all is well. When these moods take him, he becomes contemplative, and then he withdraws, rebuffing Sherlock's attempts to draw him out. It is a frustrating situation that refuses to be resolved.

Perhaps the offer of the weekend away from London is a sign that he is to be, at long last, wholly forgiven. John had brought up the idea of the fishing holiday rather clumsily, blurting into an awkward silence that one of his patients had mentioned the the quiet hamlet with its picturesque scenery and amazing angling.

"It might be just the ticket, Sherlock," John had finished before pushing away from the table and darting off to the latest in a string of temporary postings, filling in for a doctor on a holiday of his own.

Sherlock had been left to wonder, as he stared down into the dregs of his coffee, the ticket to what?

But now that they are standing on the riverbank, it seems that John has resolved his internal conflicts. His body language is natural. There is no pretence in his display of bonhomie as there has been in London. It feels like the old times before Moriarty darkened their lives.

There is a tug on his line and it pulls him sharply away from his analysis of the vagaries of John's behaviour. The rod bends and John notices. He pulls in his own line and trots up the riverbank. Caught up in the thrill of battling the fish, Sherlock nearly drops his neophyte-angler persona, but as John starts to offer unnecessary encouragement, he remembers just in time, yanking the rod sharply towards the shoreline when he should give the line more slack.

"Play him, Sherlock," John says. There is no rancour in his voice as he adds, "You're good at that." A sting of guilt pricks Sherlock's conscience anyway, and he realises that he may not have entirely forgiven himself yet for what he put John through. Mycroft's arguments about expediency can forever be damned. They should have found a better way.

John holds the net ready as the fish is hauled from the water. It's a grayling. A fine fat specimen of Thymallus thymallus, with a shining silver body and prominent dorsal fin.

"Isn't it a beauty," John says. He is breathless in his admiration of the fish. Sherlock feels a swell of joy and suddenly he is on a different riverbank. He is nine years old, and it is his father who is beaming at him in a rare display of parental pride.

The past and present become one. John puts his arm around Sherlock's shoulder and gives him an enthusiastic thump on the back. Sherlock finds himself swallowing hard over a lump in his throat. It is a peculiar and wholly unexpected reaction. He would have never have thought fishing could lead to such a display of mawkishness. He coughs to subdue the lump and frowns at John.

"Don't scare the fish," he grumbles. "You've yet to catch your breakfast."

John positively radiates delight. "I'm going to turn you into an angler yet!" he crows back as the grayling is consigned to their creel. And then his expression becomes unexpectedly sober. He tilts his head. "You're not doing all of this to humour me, are you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock makes a show of fussing with his lure, verifying it is still secure after the battle with the grayling.

After his parents' deaths, when Mycroft had become his guardian, his brother hadn't approved of the time he spent on the river, although he justified his own excursions as relevant to his work. "I can learn more about what's going on, both inside and out of the government, at weekend fishing parties or on the golf course than during hours of official briefings. But that's no reason for you to waste your time when it should be put to better use, Sherlock."

Because Mycroft was head of the family, and Sherlock was still a dutiful brother, he had put away his rod and waders along with the rest of his childish pursuits, and hoped the shade of his father would understand.

Now he realises how much he misses pitting his cunning against that of a canny fish. And how such a simple activity can allow him to find parts of himself he thought were long lost, ground out of existence by the need to become the man he was meant to be. Perhaps that was why his father had introduced him to the mysteries of fly fishing. His father had been a rigorous taskmaster, who only told him bedtime stories because it was an opportunity to reinforce the lessons Sherlock received in Latin and Greek. On the river, he'd become a different, more accessible, person. For a little while he was no longer 'Father', a Victorian patriarch born generations too late, he was simply 'Dad'.

Sherlock turns to John and frowns, a glib denial ready to fall from his lips. But then he reconsiders. He's never spoken in any detail about his early life. He cannot change what has come before, and so there is no point in dwelling. But John is reaching out to him and if they are to heal their friendship completely, then Sherlock must reach back. He puts down his rod, pours John a cup of coffee out of their flask, and begins to tell a story about the first time he and his dad went fishing.

end


End file.
